


for the soul

by memitims



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cooking, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2009010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memitims/pseuds/memitims
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>debbie's sick; ian and mickey try to make her feel better</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the soul

Ian pressed his palm against Debbie's forehead, heat radiating off her flushed skin. He winced. Ian knew Debbie hated being sick, hated it more than spiders, hated it more than changing Liam's diaper, and hated it more than filling the dishwasher.

"Jesus Debs, you're burning up."

Debbie groaned and reached for the glass of water on her bedside table. "I'm dying," she announced.

"You're not dying." Ian rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. I know being sick sucks, but you'll get over it in a couple of days. Just stay in bed and rest up. Let me know if you need anything."

She sighed. "Thanks, Ian." He nodded, and ruffled her hair gently. She glared at him, because sometimes he forgot that she was a teenager now, that she wasn't his just his kid sister anymore, and parts of him missed sweet, little Debbie, but other parts were proud to see how great she was growing up. Ian knew she had her struggles, everyone did, but Debbie handled hers with ease. It was kinda awesome. 

Ian left her room and clattered down the stairs, jumping over the creaky third step and into the kitchen. Mickey was slumped over the kitchen table, wrestling with the sports section of the newspaper, like he did every morning. He always fucked up the creases and could never get it to fold properly, and Ian was endlessly amused by his battles with the paper. 

"Fuckin' hell," Mickey was muttering to himself, when Ian walked in. Ian was pretty sure one of the pages was actually ripped in half. He didn't say anything.

Mickey looked up, slowly. "She alright?" he asked.

"Just a little fever," Ian answered. "Should be better in a day or two. Debbie's a tough one, usually gets through 'em pretty quickly."

Mickey nodded and pushed the paper towards the other end of the table, the pages falling like leaves into a messy pile. 

"Seriously, Mick? What'd that newspaper ever do to you?"

"Fuck you," Mickey said, and then, softer, "Does Debbie need anything?"

Ian thought for a moment, a tiny bit surprised at the question, before he remembered that Mickey was an older brother too. When you really got down to it, when you broke him down and studied all the complex pieces that made him Mickey, it was obvious that he was good at caring for other people. Even if he didn't look it on the outside (It hadn't taken Ian long to realize how much he'd have to dig to find the incredible pieces of himself that Mickey hid from the world, and after that, he never looked back. He had hated himself, sometimes, for getting so attached to someone that kept his heart in a steel trap, except Mickey was worth it). 

"She didn't ask for it, but chicken noodle soup always makes her feel better when she's sick."  
  
Mickey stood up from the table, pushing his chair in. "Let's make some kick-ass chicken noodle soup, then."

He padded over to join Ian in the kitchen, stopping in front of the refrigerator and opening the door. "Also," he peered into the fridge, like it held all the answers, "how do you make chicken noodle soup?" 

Ian laughed.

\---

Turns out, Ian knew basically the same amount about making chicken soup as Mickey. Which was jack shit. He thought he'd find a recipe and do what it said, but he and Mickey were pretty fucking bad at following directions. 

("I think I went a little overboard on the carrots. I cut up like four cups of them."

"Whatever, Mickey. Just dump them all in."

"That's fucking double what the recipe asks for."

"Carrots are vegetables, right? I don't think you can have too many vegetables.")

They killed time while the soup was cooking on the stove by having a fight with rolled-up balls of newspaper. They tore off pieces of the pages, crumpled them up, and chucked them at each other. Newspaper was actually pretty fucking hard to aim. 

Carl walked into the kitchen while Ian was pelting Mickey in the chest, and he stopped in the doorway, the weirdest fucking look on his face, like Ian and Mickey were fucking aliens or something. 

"You better clean that up," Carl said, his arms crossed. "My girlfriend's coming over and I don't want the house to be a mess."

"Too late," Ian laughed. "You probably have more important things to worry about, on that front. Like the living room."

"Dude, you have a girlfriend?" Mickey asked, incredulous. "You're like ten."

Carl sighed. "Never underestimate the power of true love."

"Alright, Prince Charming." Ian aimed one of his newspaper balls at Carl's face, hitting him square in the nose and laughing at his annoyed look. "Go see if your sister needs anything, okay?"

He nodded at Ian, and turned to stomp up the stairs. 

"I never had a girlfriend when I was ten," Mickey said, wistfully. 

Ian snorted and whipped another piece of newspaper at Mickey's head. "Yeah, okay Mickey, I wonder why."  
  
Mickey flipped him off, and then the timer started beeping, obnoxious as ever, and they both jumped. Ian hated that thing. He'd spilled coffee on himself so many times because that damn thing had gone off in the middle of breakfast, while Debbie was baking cookies or something, and it was the most aggravating, incessant noise. 

They rushed over to the stove, peering into the pot. 

"It looks done," Mickey announced, like he actually knew what the fuck he was talking about. "Smells good."

"Now we have to let it cool for ten minutes," Ian read from the old cookbook, beaten down by years of use, skimming his fingers over the recipe to make sure they weren't missing anything else. 

They waited for it to cool by cleaning up the newspaper. Neither of them talked much, which was okay, because Ian loved the silence as much as he loved Mickey's voice and Mickey's laughter. He couldn't pinpoint when it happened, when they reached a point where the silences were comfortable, when quick, stolen glances became unabashed stares ( _I'm looking at you, okay, deal with it, I'm looking at you with that fucking look in my eyes, because I like watching your face soften and the corners of your mouth turn up and your eyes brighten. Full speed ahead, I don't care if you think I'm weird, I'm gonna look at you now, and I'm gonna keep looking at you for a long time_ ). 

So yeah, Ian wasn't sure when that happened, but he sure as hell wasn't turning back now. 

 "Been ten minutes?" Mickey asked, breaking Ian out of his thoughts. 

"Think so," Ian said, softly. Mickey reached over and stuck the spoon into the soup, swirling it around a few times, before turning it upwards and ladling a little onto the wooden surface. He blew on it a few times, then stuck it in his mouth, slurping it up with a disgustingly dramatic noise that made Ian laugh. 

Mickey made a face.

"What?" Ian asked. "Is it any good?"

Mickey swiped up another spoonful and pushed it in Ian's direction. Ian grabbed the spoon and poured it down his throat. It wasn't bad, per say, just kinda bland, like a single saltine or a handful of snow. 

"Shit," Ian said. "How the fuck does Fiona make it taste so good?"

He watched Mickey's eyes light up, the way they did when Mickey had an idea, and he turned to rummage through the cabinet beside the fridge. 

"Duh," Mickey said, grabbing a salt shaker from the cupboard and waving it towards Ian. "We forgot the most important ingredient."

Ian rolled his eyes. "Salt doesn't fix everything."

"No, but it sure as hell helps. I've seen how much Debbie puts on her potatoes. Girl loves salt."

"Fine," Ian said. Mickey grinned, and started dumping salt into the soup. He stirred it up and took another spoonful, making a slightly less disgusted face this time. "Okay, it still tastes weird," he admitted. "But Debbie won't notice, right?"

"Doubt it." Ian pulled a bowl and spoon from the dish cupboard and handed them to Mickey. "C'mon, let's bring her some."

\---

Debbie didn't think it tasted weird at all, and Ian could see that she was freaking thrilled when she found out that Mickey helped make it too. Apparently, Ian wasn't as cool as Mickey. 

"Thanks guys," she said, her voice scratchy. 

They smiled at her as she sipped the soup. Ian pressed a kiss into the top of her head, and Mickey ruffled her hair. She batted them away, pretending not to smile.

"Freaks."

"Feel better, Debs."  
  
She smiled at them over the bowl, steam curling up over her chin, and Ian and Mickey slipped out of her room, their fingers brushing gently. Ian didn't know when he'd gotten so lucky, being able to spend all morning with Mickey, goofing around and fucking cooking, of all things, but he wasn't gonna complain. 


End file.
